


Like a dream within a dream

by voxofthevoid



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, But then I never do, Drunk!Hannibal, Hannibal can be pretty dramatic, Hannigram - Freeform, I have no idea what I’ve done here, Kinda, M/M, Reunion, post-season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:59:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3277637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An abnormal encounter in a bar in Italy.   </p><p>
  <i> Hello, stranger.</i>
</p><p>~</p><p>Hannibal is about to leave, to slink back to his hotel to be alone in peace with his treasured ghosts... when a face that's been haunting his dreams and waking hours for the last several months appears before him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <i>Will?</i>
</p><p> </p><p>It's just an illusion, a trick of the light, he tells himself but the face doesn't change and the man making his way towards Hannibal though the squirming bodies in the bar seems entirely too corporeal, rubbing and jostling others with his determined stride. Hannibal remains frozen, his breath stuttering to a painful halt in his throat as Will throws himself into the seat beside him with a harsh grunt, signaling for a drink without raising his head from his habitual slouch. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a dream within a dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Entity_Sylvir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entity_Sylvir/gifts).



> This was written as a birthday fic for my friend. The following prompt is hers, 
> 
> “Will meets Hannibal, who's in disguise, at a bar in Italy. Will recognizes him but pretends he doesn't. Hannibal thinks Will knows it's him but isn't certain. Stuff happens.”

_Foolish._

He should be above this sort of pathetic indulgence. He was above this. Once. Not too long ago even. A time of plaid suits and lavish dinners and fawning acolytes. But he didn't have anything to mourn then, did he? Had no need to drown himself in a bottle of golden brown whiskey that is a far cry from the exquisite vintages that kissed his lips before. He doesn't really admit, not even in the beginning stages of inebriation, that maybe, just maybe, he chose this because this is what Will (It's delicious agony to even think of _him_ , even the whisper of that name in his mind enough to invoke memories of fire and laughter and lov- no, mustn’t think of that. Treacherous, just like him) would choose. 

The great Hannibal Lecter. Doctor. Gourmand. Socialite. Mass murderer. Cannibal. Monster. God. Reduced to a desolate shade in a subpar bar. Oh, how the world would laugh. How _he_  would laugh. Or perhaps he would understand. He always did before, no matter what. That was what drew Hannibal to him, wasn't it? That so sweet offer of complete understanding. It wasn't so sweet in the end, had turned bitter like rotten meat on his tongue. 

Another glass emptied, another poured, the thick, graceless crystal caressed by long, steady fingers. 

His own fault, really. Should've been content with understanding. Should not have pushed for acceptance. But then, he never could help himself. Had to push and push and push until something gave. Or broke. And Will did break, but oh, he put himself back together. Brilliant man. So very brilliant. And then he pushed back, with soft words and tender touches, until Hannibal broke and laid bare all that he was for Will to devour. 

He should never have let himself hope. Should never even have dreamed that there was a life for him that held more than carefully crafted destruction. But he always did make Hannibal do things he never should... 

He finishes the bottle easily, the whiskey all but tasteless on his tongue, and doesn't ask for another. He doesn't want to forget really, just wants thoughts to dull and barriers to collapse so he can _feel_  without the dubious mercy of his own restraint. He can't hurt when he's sober, fully rooted in the complex chambers of his mind, and he wants to hurt, wants to honor those memories the way they deserve instead of burying them deep and living a life that feels so very empty without _him_. 

He wonders, with an acute stab of pain, what will happen when they meet again (and they will most certainly meet again, it can be no other way). He's imagined it so very many times and it's always Hannibal who ends up a bloodied heap on the ground while his beloved twists the knife inside him while kissing his lips. 

A good way to go, all things considered. Fitting. Intimate. Yes, he'd like to die like that. 

Hannibal is about to leave, to slink back to his hotel to be alone in peace with his treasured ghosts... when a face that's been haunting his dreams and waking hours for the last several months appears before him. 

_Will?_

It's just an illusion, a trick of the light, he tells himself but the face doesn't change and the man making his way towards Hannibal though the squirming bodies in the bar seems entirely too corporeal, rubbing and jostling others with his determined stride. Hannibal remains frozen, his breath stuttering to a painful halt in his throat as Will throws himself into the seat beside him with a harsh grunt, signaling for a drink without raising his head from his habitual slouch. 

He can leave now- he should leave now. He may not look like himself but he doubts that Will would have much trouble recognizing him. He’d be disappointed if it's that easy to fool the once celebrated profiler. 

_Get up. Get out. Walk away._

But Will being here can't possibly be a coincidence, he must be here for Hannibal, but why, what is his-

Hannibal prepares himself for the inevitable fallout when Will suddenly whips around to look at him, deep blue eyes catching his gaze and holding it almost challengingly. 

"Hello there," Will greets, voice smooth and low, without any of the emotional weight Hannibal anticipated. A noncommittal greeting to a stranger in a bar, if it weren't for the knowing glint in his eyes and the tension in his limbs. Sheer shock floods Hannibal, momentarily freeing his mind from the grip of the alcohol. 

"Good evening," Hannibal hears himself say, his accent ever so slightly thicker from the whiskey, his mind stunned from the incongruity of the situation. 

Will's eyes flit to Hannibal's empty bottle of whiskey and if he's surprised, it doesn't show on his face, a tiny quirk of lips the only reaction evident. 

"Can I offer you a drink?" Will asks, angling his upper body towards Hannibal, broadcasting his interest in a way that's as deliberate as it's puzzling. 

_What are you doing, Will?_

He parts his lips to decline the offer, to say he's had too much or perhaps ask what cruel game Will thinks he's playing but the words that slip past are something else entirely. 

"Of course." 

Hannibal watches mutely, still dazed and unsure of reality for once in his life, as Will orders another drink. Will looks the same as he remembers; a little leaner maybe, more haggard, the hollows under his eyes more pronounced. Almost involuntarily, his eyes flicker to Will's clothed abdomen, seeking the scar he knows must be there. Hannibal’s mark on him. The thought brings him very little pleasure. 

Will is watching him with an unreadable expression and Hannibal knows then, without a doubt, that Will is fully aware of who he is talking to. 

But the younger man merely slides a tall glass of amber liquid towards him, head tilted to the side as if in curiosity. 

"Are you here alone?" 

  

ᴥ ᴥ¤ ¤ ¤ ᴥ

  

It's all a blur, mostly. Too many drinks, consumed at Will's gentle coaxing and careful queries, dulling his mind, eradicating his inhibitions, and Hannibal can feel himself going soft and pliant under Will's seeking lips and fingers, clinging to the younger man with a strange blend of desire and desperation. 

He doesn't know where they are, though he assumes that Will has brought him to wherever he's staying. The small, slightly cramped but neat room is certainly a far cry from Hannibal's luxurious suite, though at the moment he is thoroughly unconcerned with anything that does not involve the comforting heat of Will and the stumbling movements of their half-clothed bodies. 

They don't lie down on the bed so much as crash into it, Hannibal ending up splayed on the mattress with Will covering him, mouths still moving with near-frantic haste. Will breaks the kiss to lick his way down Hannibal's neck, pushing away the torn tatters of his shirt to mouth at his chest. Blunt teeth graze his pert nipples and Hannibal moans, wanton in a way he's rarely been before, arching into Will as if trying to merge with him. 

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, grabbing Will by the hair and hauling him up for a sloppy kiss, "God, Will, I'm so sorry." 

It's the first open acknowledgment on this strange night about who they are and what they have done, the abandonment of the tentative pretence of anonymity they maintained in the bar and the subsequent ride to this place. 

He's not exactly sure how Will is going to react, doesn't care much at this juncture, but the soft, feathery brush of lips against his lids and the gentle hushing comes as a surprise nonetheless. 

"Sshh, it's okay," Will breathes, "I'm here now. It's okay." 

Hannibal's mouth is captured yet again in a plundering kiss as Will draws him against his own body, a strong arm curled around his torso, holding him close as the other snakes down the narrow space between them to rest lightly against Hannibal's half-hard cock. Even this current mimicry of the beautiful intimacy they shared once is enough to feed his arousal and he arches into the faint touch with an eager moan, all reservations lost under the dual assaults of the alcohol and his Will upon his mind. 

A few rough strokes of Will's palm through the smooth fabric of his pants is enough for him to harden fully, his erection straining against the material and rubbing deliciously against Will's hand with each insistent roll of Hannibal's hips. Will laughs, breaking their kiss to nuzzle against Hannibal's cheek. 

Hannibal hisses though clenched teeth when Will deftly opens his fly to free his cock, taking it in a firm hold and stroking languidly. Will touches him as he used to before, skilled fingers dancing over taut flesh in just the right way to drive all remnants of coherency from Hannibal's mind, moans and whimpers slipping past his lips. It's devastating, this combination of pleasure and tenderness, and it's the latter that drives him to climax so quickly, the sound of his name so sweet on Will's lips stripping Hannibal of the last of his restraint. 

When the waves of blinding ecstasy recedes, Hannibal is lying with his face pressed tight to Will's chest, the younger man's voice murmuring sweet nothings in his ear. He realizes he's clinging to Will, arms locked in a fierce embrace around the man's wiry torso. 

"Will?" he calls quietly, distantly wondering why his face feels wet. 

"Go to sleep, love," Will murmurs, rubbing calming circles into the small of Hannibal's back. "I'll be here when you wake." 

And so Hannibal sleeps, too far gone to argue with the gentle command, cocooned in the scent that tastes like home. 

**Author's Note:**

> I had way too much fun writing this Hannibal’s voice. XD
> 
> Kudos and comments are love<3


End file.
